Epigram ‘n Aphorism Samwiches

The Merit Of Looks

The Merit Of Looks

By your scalpel’s edge I could beg
sew back up this waste of skin
just let sag
wires gray
stray
addled head couldn’t conceive romance
with other dead in decay

vibrant red, a dream lifetimes away.
Vitals encased restrain swoon
when your lovely bodice brushes soft fibers
In our shared room.
Using mirrors, I take account
how you deploy your gaze,
consider this shadowed figure,
unintended mystery.

Maybe posture, lack of return,
I notice your attention veers away,
as gray melds in black night
into a tumbler of colored ice
a man melting,
legs straddling a dead leather-top horse.

With surgical snips
and about 10k
would she be in my arms., anyway?


2.8.22

She doesn’t read me.